I am a freelance writer with a focus on the Ballard neighborhood. I love connecting what is happening in the community with my own life. I was born to be at large.

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate..

House Arrest

Whether talking to friends or writing about day to day life my natural state is one of living out loud. When situations arise that curtail my natural tendencies I am lost. My current state feels like one of exile, but instead of being sent to an island fortress I’m on house arrest.

My crime? No crime other than questionable timing. There’s a For Sale sign in front of my beloved house which makes me feel distanced from my neighbors, and trapped by a house that needs to stay unnaturally pristine at all times.

For a person who writes about their block, their daily interactions in Ballard, these are strange times indeed. (But I try to find opportunities that do exist).

It all started four weeks ago when I was having my house painted. My painters Pete and Dan (delivered to me by a blog connection of course) were saints. They prepped for days, never played music or ate on-site, never used my bathroom or left any trash. Pete even insisted on taking all debris home with him along with brushes to be washed. Occasionally they talked Seahawks but otherwise they were all business. After prep work they wrapped my house in plastic to spray primer. I couldn’t see the world at all except one glimpse of sky from a roof window in the bathroom. One morning Pete called me from Renton to ask me about the weather. How would I know? I couldn’t see out any windows and my doors were taped.

Pete the Painter

Just as the plastic came off and Pete was pressing me for the color scheme for my trim I went on my usual Friday morning walk. What wasn’t usual was going inside another house on the market in the neighborhood. Twenty years of block worship and after five minutes I was willing to let go and jump ship. You see, Mr. Maple Leaf and I are planning to merge households but we can’t merge neighborhoods – we can only live in one and you can guess my druthers.

So picture the next hour of my life. My blood sugar is low. My column is due. Mr. Maple Leaf is in Japan, not exactly the same time zone and I’ve got the length of Pete and Dan’s lunch break to figure out the three color trim on my 1905 Victorian. Did I mention that the mail carrier was not a lot of help? His taste runs to black and purples.

It has been four weeks and now instead of being wrapped in plastic, my house is set off by its newly painted glow and the color flyers in the box by the curb. “It’s like you’ve already moved,” a neighbor said to me in a rare outdoor passing this week.

My mouth open and shut – but what could I say? It’s not that I’ve already moved because there are two houses to be sold first during what newspapers call the worst economic downturn since the depression. If I seemed to disappear in the last weeks it’s because instead of sitting on stoops with the neighbors enjoying the last of the afternoon sunshine, I was experiencing an interior version of hell. Not mental. Physical. Sorting my life to date crammed into two stories plus full (double meaning intended) basement and garage. If Mr. Maple Leaf and I were going to make an offer on the other house we needed to be ready to put our houses on the market within 48 hours. Add to the mix that my daughter and I had already scheduled a week of college visits on the east coast.

Help, I called and emailed. Help! And how my friends helped. A blog friend tackled my kitchen cabinets and my Club Besalu ladies attacked my garden and supported Swanson’s greatly. My oldest Seattle friends put their muscle into garden hardscape and planting. I pulled all-nighters tackling items that had been on my to do list for years. How is that we can live with a scratch in the paint for ten years and then not another day? Painting the bathroom between 1-3 a.m. was not however a good idea.

By the time we returned from a New England college tour the Loyal Realty For Sale sign was by the driveway and the first Open House had been held. There had been no time to warn the neighbors and Neighbor Bob (designated messenger) was sidetracked by a lively grandson. One week there’s an Ice Cream Social for 100 in front of my home and three weeks later a For Sale sign.

So here I am inside a house that is almost unfamiliar in its bare, gleaming surfaces. It reminds me a Japanese Sand and Stone garden that is created by rake, I mustn’t leave a trace of myself. Forget cooking with garlic and onions. I don’t feel like I can cook, blog, sleep through the night. Neighbors pass by, people walking dogs stop to read the information about the house, but I am on the inside looking out. Which feels like being on the outside looking in where I’m not allowed.

Once on jury duty I wasn’t allowed to discuss the case until we had been dismissed. Not being able to talk about what we were hearing in court and deliberating was one of the worst experiences of my life. Especially because what we were hearing was devastating.

“There should be a support group,” my house-sitter said. “For people with houses on the market.”

“At least a safe house,” I replied. “A place where we can leave our dishes and stay in pajama’s.”

In the grand scheme of things, this house arrest is minor. The key box on the door is awkward but it is not really keeping me inside. Wiping down the counters immediately after slicing bread is not a bad habit, nor is making my bed or dusting every other day. It’s just not me.

That’s the crux of it. I don’t feel like me right now. I want to explain myself to every neighbor…if I move it will only be a few blocks away. I love this house. I love this street. I don’t want to leave. So. Why?

Because I’ve accepted that just as my daughter will leave home next year for a college on the other side of the country, I need to move on as well. My work here is done. It’s time for another couple or young family to have this house and be on this block filled with young children and indolent cats. Mr. Maple Leaf and I need to start our lives together in a home that will be ours together.

As for timing…we don’t always get to choose our timing. I hope that soon the person who is destined to fall in love with this house next walks in the door soon and sees what I saw 20 years ago; a place that is meant to be their home.

The plastic is long gone from the windows; Pete and Dan even washed the upper windows if they weren’t comfortable letting me go up their ladders. This house is buffed. On this inside, separated by my picture window on the street is me, caught in a limbo of my own making. No longer completely of this home, but not yet belonging anywhere else either. I watch for the people who read the flyer. Who look up at the peak of the house, the Japanese maple threading with red in the front, the combination of three color trim and will them to want to come inside. House arrest doesn’t mean no visitors.

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate..